


And the Wolf Answered

by bixbobeau



Category: The Boy Who Cried Wolf - Aesop
Genre: Bestiality, Fantasy, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Other, Unspecified Underage, Unspecified Wolf Intelligence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixbobeau/pseuds/bixbobeau
Summary: No one had seen the Wolf for over fifty years, and Peter is the unlucky boy to call him down.





	And the Wolf Answered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidetic/gifts).



Nobody had seen a wolf in the Eastern mountains for decades, but Peter’s mother nonetheless told him the story of the last sighting every night. It was a tale passed down from their elders for generations because, as his mother said, this wolf was no ordinary wolf.

“Now, remember dear,” she would say just before she kissed his forehead and dimmed the light, “if you see the wolf while you tend the flocks, don’t run. He’s a mighty beast, and he doesn’t need to resort to chasing his food. Don’t insult him.”

“But Mother,” Peter would often respond in his best wheedling tone, “the wolf _frightens_ me. Can’t one of the others watch for him? Edward, or Benjamin, or Father?”

“No, my dear. This is a task for the youngest,” she said, but would not explain beyond that. Her eyes were always sad when she said this, but Peter never took it seriously; no one had seen the Wolf since before his grandfather’s time, after all.

Though his mother tried her best to warn him of the dangers, Peter fell asleep to the thought of the long, boring days ahead of him, but dreamed of teeth and blood and a fantastic game with a smile on his face.

*

Peter was a very obedient boy, so when the next day started with his cries of alarm about the Wolf appearing on the edge of the village, those who knew his family came running. The hills were deep, with wide pathways worn between the trees from the rain and occasional traveler, and pretending that the Wolf had run away at the commotion was as easy as watching his family’s handful of sheep. The villager’s praised him, and his mother smiled at him with pride when she handed him his lunch with an extra sweet inside; that night, he told the story to his brothers and his father, and soaked up their praise.

The next day, Peter did it again. This time, he waited until after lunch, when the boredom got too great; no one would expect a cunning Wolf to appear at the same time, right? And since this was his family’s Wolf, the one that had been with them since they’d settled here, it only made sense that it would wait for when his father would be coming home after trading in the village. This time, his father was the one who came running first, armed with blade and pitchfork; Peter chattered excitedly at his back while he and the other villagers searched again for the Wolf and found nothing except the paw print Peter had hurriedly shaped in the dirt with his feet.

The third day, Peter didn’t wait until he was watching the sheep before he raised the alarm; he cried out the Wolf’s name before most of his family was even awake, and the villagers grumbled when they came running after tumbling from their beds. Peter got to spend the entire day at home while the adults searched for the Wolf, and he heard them comment, just before they left in the evening, that this was an _unusually_ cunning Wolf. Peter, for the first time, felt proud of his family’s story; if any Wolf was as cunning as Peter pretended, it would be theirs.

On the fourth day, Peter planned to wait until the sun was about to set. This time, he would catch his brother Edward when he came home with his bow after a long day of hunting, and wouldn’t Edward be proud? He might even insist that Peter get a bow of his own to better defend their sheep, since Peter was so good at it so far. Maybe Peter would even be put on hunting duty instead of this boring chore.

Peter was dreaming up scenarios for how this night would go when a twig snapped behind him, and Peter turned automatically, thinking it a lost sheep; instead, he saw a monster, ten feet tall at its shoulders and with a head the size of their biggest ram. The long snout of the Wolf parted and revealed long rows of white teeth and a black tongue, and when its mouth closed over the nearest startled sheep, there was no mess. It swallowed the sheep whole.

“Wo-wolf,” Peter said, and then again. “Wolf!” he screamed with all the power in his young voice, and he expected the villagers to come running, his family behind them. They had before.

No one came, and before he could blink, the Wolf swallowed a second sheep.

 _Don’t run,_ his mother’s voice said in his memory, but it didn’t matter; as soon as the Wolf swallowed up the third sheep with its massive jaws, Peter’s skinny legs moved without his help to send him sprinting up the nearest hill. He needed to get home, back behind their walls and his mother’s skirts—it didn’t matter that the sheep were scattering across the field now or that the Wolf could surely leap across a fallen tree like it was carried on the wind; he just had to get away.

 _Wrong way, wrong way,_ his mind chanted, but he was in such a panicked rush to get away that his hands kept scrambling against the brush, scrapping against rocks and thorns as he pulled himself up, up, up. When he saw the flat ground in front of him, he recognized it as the cliff he’d often stood on to watch the village; it was a relief to see familiar ground, and he planned to climb a tree, any tree, just to get himself out of reach.

He never even heard the Wolf follow, but no sooner had Peter put his feet on steady ground before a great weight knocked him into the ground. He had a mouthful of dirt and blood from where his teeth chipped against rocks, and he turned his head as best he could, fearful of seeing the Wolf’s gaping jaws just before they closed around his head. 

Instead, he saw first the great beast’s paw, centered on his back, and then the Wolf’s blazing red gaze. It watched him; it was angry that he had run.

“I’m…sorry…” Peter choked out around the air he could barely pull into his chest, and the weight against him increased. He trembled under the press of the Wolf’s claws, as wide as his father’s fingers but as sharp as a good knife, and he thought this was the end. His parents would find him—no, they _wouldn’t_ find him; instead, they would find his guts splattered against the rocks, staining the grass of his favorite perch. Would they know it was him? Or would they think it was an unlucky sheep, but still hold hope for him in their hearts? Which was worse?

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ Peter thought as he closed his eyes against the tears that were welling up, and he hoped somehow everyone heard him—the village, his family, the Wolf. It seemed like too much to ask for forgiveness when he’d been so foolish, foolish every day, but he couldn’t help the thoughts.

He thought he imagined it, when the weight against him eased. He thought it was his mind playing tricks.

A second later, though, he felt the Wolf’s jaws close, not over his head or his chest, but over the back of his trousers. The Wolf yanked with one jerk of its large head, and Peter yelped when the force tugged him off the ground; the well-worn fabric tore before it could cut Peter in two, and then the Wolf dropped what was left of his clothes like it didn’t like the taste. Peter didn’t understand; had it tried to rip him to pieces, but failed? Did he dare try to escape again?

While Peter’s thoughts spun in confusion, something wet and cold touched his backside. Peter jerked away without meaning to; when the Wolf growled, it was a hot, heavy sound against his bare skin, and Peter froze again in terror. The cold was quickly replaced by something hot instead, a giant drooling tongue that tasted every inch of his skin, and Peter—even as terrified as he was—couldn’t resist turning his head to look when that too disappeared, replaced with something else, something hot and big. The paw at his back was barely there at all, now; he could turn his head far enough to see more than just the Wolf’s face.

What he saw was almost worse than certain death. The thing between the Wolf’s legs was massive and angry-red, far different from what Peter had seen on the rams or the family dogs. He knew what it was for because his parents had told him; for making little lambs and pups and children, when a boy found a girl. The explanation didn’t explain why the Wolf was rubbing that red thing against his backside over and over again, leaving wet stickiness behind; _Peter_ wasn’t a girl wolf. Even if he was, that wasn’t the right hole—girls had another one, one that babies came out of. Didn’t they?

“Wait,” Peter said in a small voice, barely a squeak, but the Wolf didn’t stop shifting, rocking. Something big and round and wet slid between his cheeks and poked at the tight clench of Peter’s hole, then again as the Wolf huffed as if in triumph; a second later, there was a _push_ , and Peter wailed. It _burned_ , the Wolf’s massive thing, even as it drooled all over Peter’s backside and bits. It was trying to go in him, trying to push against the walls and barrier of his tender insides, but it was too big. He’d be killed!

 _Don’t run,_ Peter heard in his head again, and this time the voice was different. His mother’s, but not, and Peter…listened. As much as he could, when pressed under the Wolf’s weight of fur and teeth.

He sobbed while the Wolf’s shaft kept pushing into him, as wide as his arm and surely just as long. Peter could feel it in his stomach, could feel the way it pressed his suddenly swollen belly harder against the ground, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to walk normally again, with as thick as the thing was. When the Wolf became to move, it was like a mating, like every time the sheep had made little lambs and Peter had watched curiously, and it hurt, it hurt so much. Not even the wetness dribbling down from his hole and onto his hairless thighs and little sack seemed to help much, and he could feel each thrust behind his teeth as the Wolf hammered away. Each thrust of the Wolf’s shaggy hips seemed like it was trying to take Peter’s insides with it, and he was terrified, suddenly, of the thought that the Wolf would finish with him like that, turning him inside out like a pair of trousers. He hoped, desperately, that the Wolf would stay inside instead, even if it hurt.

After what seemed like an eternity of the Wolf moving inside him, in and out, he got his wish. The Wolf stilled above him, its matted fur pressed against his smooth skin, and then—then the Wolf began to grow inside him. 

The tender flesh of Peter’s hole, already puffy and sore, stretched impossibly, and Peter screamed and clawed his hands in the dirt helplessly, as though he wanted to crawl away. It did no good; he was stuck in place by that massive bulb inside him, and then he felt a flood of something hot filling him up like he was a waterskin. Peter felt like he was going to burst, and then the Wolf howled. It howled and howled, a monstrous sound no animal should be able to make, and then it leaned its massive head down and sank its teeth into Peter’s shoulder. 

It was barely enough to break the skin, but Peter howled too, howled and whimpered and held still while the Wolf mated him and pressed him into the rocks of the mountain.


End file.
